


Homeward Bound

by Narya_Flame



Series: Homeward Bound [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath & Recovery, Angst, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, London, Post-Canon, Scotland, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 19:45:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18817750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: It's early summer in London.   Sören and Claire take a walk in the park, and together they make a big decision.A crossover of 'verses featuring characters fromThe Ways of ParadoxandNorthern Lights, with hints ofSummerlandif you squint.





	Homeward Bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verhalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Chains Of Eternity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070109) by [verhalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/pseuds/verhalen). 



> This was supposed to be a fluffy little gift, but apparently I'm incapable of writing these characters without a dollop of angst in there somewhere. 
> 
> I don't think this belongs in any of the universes any of us are currently working on, or even any of those that the other fics have touched on/shown glimpses of. I don't currently have plans to write more, but a couple of possible developments are hinted at, and if anybody playing in this crazy multiverse would like to take it further, you have my blessing. (Although of course there is no obligation – this was conceived and written as a standalone.)
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

_The Rookery_  
_Streatham Common_  
_2009_

At first they'd come here for the benches. They lined the pathways through the garden, wrought iron and carved stone and weather-beaten wood, one every few paces. It was rare, in London. Sören hadn't realised how rare until their lives had suddenly changed, and needing regular places to sit down and rest was no longer a nice-to-have. The Rookery's gentle slopes and shallow steps were helpful too, although – thankfully – no longer so critical as they had been a few months ago. Still, it gave him less cause for concern than most areas of the city; even now, he tried to avoid them having to use the steep stairways and narrow, busy underpasses near the tourist traps around the river. And it was quiet here; that _was_ important, in the hot, sticky bustle of the capital in May.

He stole a glance at Claire, who was sitting with her eyes closed, face tipped towards the sun.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked her.

She opened an eye and turned to him with a teasing smile. “Life. The universe. Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Mm.” She closed her eyes again and rested her cheek on his shoulder. “Mostly you.”

He slid an arm around her and, very gently, drew her close. There was no real need to take such care now – the broken bones were healed, the surgery wounds long since closed, the scars fading – but he couldn't help it. The caution had become a habit. Then there were the headaches, the struggles to concentrate, the occasional lapses in short term memory – and the subsequent frustration that burned inside her, inevitable when she had always been so driven, so articulate, when her career depended on being able to think on her feet.

 _Former career,_ Sören reminded himself. Of course Claire hadn't been into work since the accident, but three days ago she had made it official by handing in her notice.

Anger like a fanned flame soared through him, its wings exploding like those of the phoenix inked into his back. It was sheer, white-hot fury at the bastard who had done this to her, who had driven on and left her unconscious at the side of the road...

“Hey.” He felt her shift against him, heard sharp steel in her voice. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“I can tell when you're thinking about it. I can _feel_ it; you...you fizz and thrum like a thunderstorm.” She brushed a kiss against his collarbone. “It won't help, _ástin mín._ ”

“Jæja, I know.” He stroked her hair, warm from the sun and satin-smooth. The platinum blonde was half grown out now, her natural rose gold showing through. “Your accent is getting really good.”

“Well. I've had lots of time to practice.” She linked her fingers. “Walk?”

The early summer heat was soft on their skin. The gardens, carefully kept, were awake now, and the light slid warmly over the lichen-patched stone and the cream gravel paths. The air tasted of cut grass and honey. Above them, the sky had deepened into its mid-year blue, and even on a Saturday they had the place almost to themselves. The Edwardian white garden, in particular, was soothing and peaceful. Shasta daisies nodded lazily as rock roses bloomed at their feet, while stiff-necked lilies stretched skyward and let their glossy petals unfurl. Sören bent and picked up a freesia blossom that had dropped onto the path and slid it carefully into his satchel. He had half an idea of pressing it later. Meanwhile, Claire paused by one of the lily plants, almost as tall as she was, and inhaled its scent.

“Gorgeous.” She smiled, grey eyes alight. “The smell of summer... Sören, what's wrong?”

“You have pollen on your face,” he grinned as he straightened up.

“Oh. Oops.” Her smile widened. “Where?”

“Here.” Sören kissed the top of her nose, and joy curled through him as she squealed and then laughed. “And here.” A kiss on each cheek. “And right here, too.” He pressed his lips against hers, and Claire's giggles softened into sighs.

“There was no pollen, was there?” she asked, folding her arms as they eventually broke apart.

“...No.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “You're terrible.”

“No, I'm not, I'm Sören.”

He received a gentle swat on the arm for that, and then she pressed a kiss into his neck.

They paused by the wishing well, crouched at the heart of the gardens like an imp inviting trouble. The hole was now covered by stiff steel rods, set just under the well's lip, six brutal modern scars across the gap in the crazy paving. Sören dug a battered copper penny from his pocket and flicked it into one of the gaps between the metalwork, listening as it _plinked_ on the way down.

_I wish..._

He paused. Theoretically he should have everything he wanted. Claire was well on her way to health again – and how unlikely that had seemed, even as recently as Christmas. With his medical training, he had known damn well what the words “head injury” could mean, and it wasn't the long sleep, peaceful awakening and instant recovery so beloved by soap operas. It was a painful, grinding, exhausting process of small gains followed by setbacks, of therapy sessions, sleepless nights, and no guarantee there would ever be an end. He could wish for vengeance, he supposed. The man to blame was behind bars now, though it wasn't enough, and it felt like half the country hated Claire and Sören for putting him there. A daft young kid, the papers had said, doing what daft kids do, as though it was normal to tear around London in a McLaren 720 at the age of eighteen, under the influence. A dazzling talent gone to waste. English football's rising star, his hopes dashed on the rocks by some silly career-minded harpy, wrapped up in her phone call as she crossed the road. Never mind that it had happened at a zebra crossing, that pedestrians had right of way, that Justin Roberts had been driving far too fast to stop. He hadn't even shown remorse. Oh, he'd issued a blandly worded apology, no doubt written by his extensive PR team, but there had been no tears at the photographs shown in court, no shock at the pictures of Claire in her hospital bed, breathing through plastic pipes -

“ _Sören._ ” One hand squeezed his shoulder, then travelled lightly down his arm, soothing, stroking the heated skin. “Jesus. It's like standing next to a nuclear reactor.”

“I'm sorry.”

She slid her hand into the back pocket of his jeans. “Did you make a wish?”

“Not really.” Even his art was selling well, and had been before the accident. They had money – a goodwill payment, Justin's team of handlers had said. Not that money was important, or could make up for anything they'd been through, but it had been useful. They had given some to Margrét, enough for her to buy a bar in Reykjavik and start her own business, and they had set up a trust fund for each of Claire's three cousins. Dagnýr and Ari had been sent some too. The rest, they had invested - kept for a rainy day, as Claire's grandmother had said.

And yet Sören still felt a vague sense of unease – a restlessness in the heart. He could not name it, and did not know what to do with it.

“You should, you know.” Claire nudged him. “This whole place is built on an old mineral spring; the waters are meant to be magical.” She looked up, and stories seemed to gleam in her eyes. “Blessed by the ancient gods, or something.” She reached into her own pocket and drew out a five pence piece. Sunlight flashed against silver as she tossed it into the air, and then it fell, and vanished under the ground.

Sören kissed the top of her head. “Did _you_ wish for anything?”

Claire gave a mysterious smile and wandered away.

He kept an eye on her as they walked, but she was moving easily enough, and didn't seem tired. They looped through the shaded woodland, and then came to rest on the sloping lawns, under the great cedar tree. They stretched out in the grass; Claire nestled against his side, and, on impulse, he drew the freesia bloom from his satchel and braided it into her hair.

“Mm.” She flexed her ankles and pressed against him. “That's nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He rolled over and stroked the curve of her waist, slid his fingers under the band of her skirt, and drew slow, sensual circles on the skin of her belly. Her breath sharpened and hitched; her eyes closed, and she lifted her hips towards him.

“Sören.” A low husk in her voice, a tint of pink in her cheeks.

He kissed her deeply, sweetly, smiled at her moans, and grew hard as longing rose in him. He thought of tasting her, teasing her, edging her closer and closer to climax. “ _Elskan,_ ” he murmured. “ _Krútt mitt._ ” A wicked smile. “ _Rjómaís._ ”

Claire laughed against his lips and pulled out of the kiss. “ _Ice cream?_ Sören, really?”

He grinned, delighted. “You knew the word!”

“I told you – my Icelandic's pretty good now. I've been studying.” A shadow flickered in her eyes. “When I can concentrate on a book for more than ten minutes at a time.”

Sören stroked her cheek. “Do you want to go back?”

She closed her hand over his. “Not yet. You're getting as bad as Harrison.”

“Hey, lay off Harrison.” Still only sixteen, Claire's oldest cousin had displayed a level of calm and maturity over the past year that had astonished Sören. “He's been brilliant.”

“He has. You both have.” Claire sat up and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “But...never mind that now. I need to talk to you.”

The words were like a withering touch to his insides. “I'm listening.”

She smiled again and took his hand. “It's alright. It's nothing bad.”

He circled his arms around her, and savoured the warmth that stole through him as she leaned against his chest.

“You asked me earlier what I was thinking about,” she said slowly. “And I wasn't really joking when I answered. Quitting my job this week...it was like cutting the ropes loose. And now I feel free, but in a really weird way, like somehow I'm also stuck – bobbing about in the shallows with no direction.” Her grip tightened. “And I need one.”

Sören stroked her hair. He didn't try to tell her that there was no rush, that it had only been three days. His fingertips brushed against the silky freesia he'd tucked into the braid at her temple.

“I think I need to get out of London.”

He wasn't surprised. Like him, she wasn't truly a creature of the urban world; she might have grown up in Sheffield, but the steel city was nothing like the impersonal sprawl of the capital, and it was just a short bus ride from there into the wild beauty of the Peaks. “OK.”

“What?”

He almost laughed at the endearing crease across her brow. “Where do you want to go?”

Surprise and hope dawned on her face. “You don't want to stay here?”

He shrugged.

“But your art -”

“I can paint from anywhere. It isn't like I meet my buyers that often. Some of them I've never even seen.”

“Your mysterious benefactors,” she grinned.

“Or our guardian angels.” After the accident, but before Justin's team had reluctantly handed over that cheque, Sören had received a series of anonymous bank transfers originating from locations he had previously shipped his paintings to – Devon, Sydney, New England, rural Croatia, Tuscany, Cannes. The money had paid for medication not available yet on the NHS, for private physiotherapy, counselling, everything they had needed. He wished he _could_ meet them, one day, and thank them in person. “But I think you're right.” And as he said it, he knew he meant it; he wasn't saying it to please her. His own malaise melted like frost in the sunlight as the words fell from his mouth. “I think we should move. There's too much baggage here now – and it's not home for either of us.”

She nodded seriously. “Do you want to go back to Iceland?”

“To Akureyri?” He exhaled. “No. Not with Katrín and Einar still there.”

“Reykjavik, then? To be near Margrét?”

Sören considered. Reykjavik was a wonderful city – and, after all, it was where he and Claire had met – but on some level he knew that it wasn't really what she wanted, or what either of them needed. “No. I don't think so.” He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand, and repeated his question. “Where do _you_ want to go?”

“Well...not Sheffield, not with my parents breathing down our necks. I know they mean well,” she added quickly. “But it's suffocating, and I just want space.” She plucked a grass stem and twirled it between her fingers. “Don't laugh, but I'd actually wondered about Scotland.”

“Scotland. Wow.” He thought about it – rugged coastlines, ancient ruins, cool breezes that danced off the mountains and sea. “OK. Anywhere in particular?”

“Nowhere too remote; I'm not talking about living on an island.”

“I don't know.” He toyed with the idea in his mind. Their very own island – a few neighbours for company, who would become close friends – huddling in a pub as the winter storms raged... “That could be kind of fun.”

She laughed. “Maybe one day. But no – I think we need at least a bit of civilisation. I wondered...” She linked their fingers again, and tilted her face upwards. “You know how much we both liked St Andrews, when we went to stay with your aunt that summer?”

The idea settled in him like the warmth from a hearth-blaze. A little place on the harbour, with a balcony...a studio...plenty for Claire to do, even if she wasn't up to working for a while yet...walks on the beach...a cat, a dog, a tortoise...maybe, in time, a kid or three...

 _Woah._ Where the hell had that come from? They hadn't even talked about children.

_Although maybe we should._

Claire frowned. “It doesn't have to be there, of course. The villages in the East Neuk are beautiful. Or there's always Edinburgh?”

“No.” He kissed the back of her hand, suddenly certain. _This is the right path._ “I think we should do it. We can go up there and stay with Gitta and Jane – they could help us look for a place –”

She laughed, and it was like the sun breaking through rain. “I can't believe it. I thought I'd have to convince you, but you're as giddy as a kipper.”

“What?” He looked at her, baffled. They'd known each other for six years now, but occasionally her northern English idioms still caught him off guard.

“Never mind.”

“A kipper? And you get mad when I call you ice-cream?”

“I wasn't mad.” She knelt up and kissed him. “Although I might be, if you ever call me cheese-on-toast again.”

“It made you smile, though.”

“True.”

“So it was worth it.”

She brushed his curls away from his eyes. “You're sure you wouldn't rather go home?”

He shook his head, and drew her close. “My home is where you are.”

***

Six weeks later, they stood on the end of St Andrews pier at sunset. The cathedral behind them was lit by the last fires of day; dolphins danced in the breaking waves, and bagpipes sounded in the depths of the town. Somewhere inside himself, beneath his heart and under his soul, Sören felt something shift and lock into place. He closed his eyes, and for a moment he had a vision of a white light glowing from the bed of the sea – and he heard a song, a voice seeking something lost long, long ago...

Claire slid her arms around his waist. “OK?”

“Yes.” He opened his eyes, and placed two fingers under her chin. “Are you warm enough?”

She rolled her eyes. “Will you stop fussing? I promise, if I'm not fine, I'll tell you.”

“Alright, alright.” He laughed and raised his hands. “Where to now?”

“Drink?”

“Why not. Gitta says The Central in town is pretty good, if you don't mind a short walk?”

She grinned, and took his hand in hers. “I'll follow your lead.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Rookery is a real place, and is one of my favourite semi-hidden retreats in the capital. It was built on the site of an old mineral well, and the gardens used to belong to an old country house, before Streatham was absorbed into Greater London. There's also a lovely café. (No, I'm getting no money from Visit London, I just really like The Rookery.)
> 
> The final passage, in St Andrews, wasn't in my original draft - but then [Going Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6pR1cVgk7Is) from the soundtrack to _Local Hero_ popped up on my Spotify playlist as I was editing, and I couldn't resist.


End file.
